Shiver
by Scarlet Rose
Summary: A rare moment of acceptance and understanding between Angel and Kate


He sidles on up to her door, yet stops short of knocking. What the hell is he doing here, again? Looks down. Oh, that's right- cut, bloody and needing some first aid, though what he'd really like is some expensive liquor and a drunken haze to cap off the night. Nothing like a raging drunken fit to get his mind off of the rips in his flesh. Her apartment was closest, but now that he's here- he wonders if that isn't just a convenient excuse to see her- one that she'll most likely see through.  
  
And he wonders what she'll think of him. Dripping with demon slime, blood leaving rust stains on the carpeting in the hallways. Hopes the neighbors don't notice- don't kick her out. Seeing as how she's actually being friendly to him lately, and he wants that to last for a while. He briefly considers going back to the hotel- to the raging lecture he'll get from Cordelia, the disapproving eye from Wesley, and the soft, caring hands of Fred who would patch up his wounds without a single complaint.  
  
But he's here now, and those stairs were hard enough the first time. Better to just get this over with. Find out if the peace treaty was more than just a façade with her. He knocks, then waits for her to answer.  
  
The door opens, and he's staring into the bluest eyes he's still ever seen- eyes frozen with. . .shock, something he doesn't normally see in the calm, collected veneer of Kate Lockley. She looks him over, and as her gaze sweeps down Angel fights an irrational urge to run his hands through his hair, straightening the errant locks. Yeah, Angel. You look like shit, with demon goo running down your silk shirt, and she's going to care about your hair. Sometimes he worries that Spike was right- he really is high- maintenance.  
  
She steps back without a word, though her hand gestures to come in. This is. . .awkward. Not the usual strained atmosphere, but close. He can tell she wants to ask him- but is holding back. He doesn't like it. She's always been blunt and cutting- it's one of the things he admires about her. Wants it back.  
  
"What the hell are you doing here?"--and there it is, sharp voice cutting through his veins with clarity. He tries to smile, though it comes out as a grimace. "Well, I was in the neighborhood," he starts, then stops. Not the time for smartass comments, or she'll rip him a new one in a spot the demon missed. "You were closest," is what he settles for, and it seems to be enough for her as she nods and heads off to her closet.  
  
He looks around, and realizes he knows her apartment better than he knows the hotel. Wonders if he's really been here that often, or if he just isn't as observant in his own place. Knows she's going to get her kit, with its ointments and washes and antiseptic scents. Not that he really needs all that; after all, being immortal does have the fast healing perks. But he'd rather not stand for a minute longer with this disgusting crap on him. Realizes that, yes, Kate is a girl, and no- she probably won't have clothes to fit him, but it's too late to consider that now. Just getting himself cleaned off with have to suffice- he'll put the dirty clothes back on- sans the coat, which will need either heavy duty dry-cleaning or an hour soak in the best stain fighter money can buy. He'll decide later.  
  
She comes back, and he realizes that maybe the lecture from Cordy wouldn't have been so bad. Because he has a feeling he'll get one from her, and it'll be a lot worse. "Angel, you're a vampire. You're supposed to be faster than these things," she admonishes, motioning for him to take off his shirt. At any other time, this would have such *possibilities*, he admits to himself with an inner grin. He sees her wince, and is stopped cold for a moment- he's not used to such -caring- in her eyes.  
  
"Angel, what the hell was this thing?" she asks, and he looks down at himself and barely suppresses a wince of his own. "Raacor demon. Fast. Big claws- sharp too," he says, then realizes he's talking in incomplete sentences. But she doesn't seem to notice, just runs a cloth over one of the cuts, and smiles slightly as he hisses. "So, did you kill this evil demon stalking the poor denizens of LA?" she asks, and Angel is stunned. Kate's attempting humor with him. Maybe this friendship thing isn't all in his mind.  
  
He laughs, though not too hard- damn ribs. Broken once while he was still human, and now he can barely take a hit without them becoming sore as hell. "The poor denizens of this city? Kate- you're becoming soft. Either that, or you've taken pity on the population here," he says with a smirk- but the look in his eyes tells her he's not trying to wound her. Or at least, he thinks it does. Can't really see with the blood dripping into his eyes, which she finally notices, and hands him a tissue to wipe it away. She chuckles. "No, just too much time spent holed up in here, and not watching the news to see what the not-so-innocent citizens are up to," she admits, and it tears a hole somewhere inside him.  
  
She's just admitted what he's suspected- that she's pulled into herself again. Not that he'd want her to have much contact with the outside world; hell, if he could keep her and all his friends in a glass bubble he'd do it. He's lost too many people, had to bury too many emotions. He just hates seeing her in pain. And because it's her, she hides it so intricately that you have to peel away about six layers before revealing just a hint of it. And that's if she lets you get close enough. Figuring sitting three inches from her with her cleaning off his chest is close enough, he tries to phrase his question so that it doesn't sound like an interrogation.  
  
"How's the job hunting going?" he asks, and crap- she's figured it out. Just his luck that she's an ex-cop with excellent interrogative instincts and he's a vampire who doesn't know much about subtlety- she always knows when he's worried about her, hears it in his voice, and there's nothing he can do to fix that. She sighs, and he realizes he recognizes that sound. Hates that- wish he knew the sound of her laugh more than the sound of her sighs. "The real question you're asking is: How am I doing?" she says pointedly. Then shrugs inelegantly, hands stilling for a moment as she contemplates it. Angel wonders briefly if she's considering lying.  
  
Then her hands resume. "I'm surviving," she says, tone clear that she wants this subject dropped. Too bad. He's never been one to give in to her demands. "That's not the same as living," he responds, and oh- there it is. The fire in her eyes. He was beginning to fear she'd forgotten how to use it.  
  
"No, it's not. But it's the best I'm able to come up with right now," she says, and her hand is suddenly a bit harsher on his wounds. But he doesn't mind. He knows this discussion hurts her, and if she can release some of that on him, he'll take it. Wishes he could just remove the chip off her shoulder for her, but knows that it's a battle she must fight on her own.  
  
"And it's not as if you're an expert on living," she suddenly blurts out, eyes angry yet he swears he can see tears gathering at the corners. He thinks she's talking about the vampire thing- then realizes that isn't what she means at all. "You're the savior of the city, Angel, but can you ever really save yourself? You go around telling everyone else to let go of their problems, work them out. You walk in here with your self-righteous attitude and try to save me- when you can't even work through your own problems," she spits out, yet he can see in her expression that she isn't trying to hurt him. Is dealing with her emotions in the way she knows best- lashing out. And even though he knows this, it doesn't stop it from hurting.  
  
She lets out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob. "Hell, Angel. All I've ever given you is attitude. Hate. Prejudice. I've pushed you away, and you keep coming back for more. Why? Why waste your time here when there's some innocent out there who you can really heal? Why come to the doorstep of a former-enemy-who's-god-knows-what to you now? I don't know if I'll ever be able to share a cup of coffee with you and war stories of our scars, Angel," she says, looking down as though it will keep her façade of uncaring up- as though he won't see straight through to her broken soul.  
  
But even if she doesn't know why he keeps coming back, he does. He remembers the blonde he met in D'Oblique that night- the one without pretenses, without so many shields. And though some of that could be blamed on the drink she was nursing, he knows most of it was shades of the real Kate- a Kate he's longing to get to know. So he looks at her, and prays he has the right answer- the one that won't have her shoving him out her door half naked vowing to never allow him access into her home again. "I do it because I care," he says, and it's the right thing.  
  
He sees her face slightly contort, as she tries to force back the tears. Finally, someone has told her they care about her. And this comes without ulterior motives. And he sees her fear at this new knowledge. Sees that she finally gets it- she won't be able to scare him away with harsh words. He's not going to run away after he's seen her torn down, her pride and dignity blown to small pieces by the words of some stupid police commission. He's not going to leave her, and he realizes how many other people in her life have been unable to make that same promise. Wonders if the badge she flashed for so long was just another way of rejecting others- before they could reject her. The only source of power she had.  
  
He sees her try to build up her anger again, yet fail miserably. And so he does what instinct tells him. Reaches out and pulls her into his arms, allowing her the struggle at first. Feels her give in, settle on him, and he realizes it isn't just her weight he's feeling. She's allowing him to feel the utter heaviness of the burdens she's imposed on herself- carried by herself for far too long. He feels her tremble, but doesn't comment. Just holds her, feeling oddly comfortable in this moment that, between them, should feel anything *but* comfortable.  
  
Finally, she pulls away, wiping stray moisture from her flushed cheeks with the heels of her hands. "So, what now?" she asks soggily, and Angel realizes he didn't think beyond this point. Notices her look, and laughs at himself. "I don't know. I didn't really plan this far ahead," he admits, and she laughs too. A real laugh, not that manufactured one that he's used to hearing. He likes this one better- but now she's in trouble. Because now that he's heard it, he's going to want to hear more of it.  
  
"Really?" she asks, slight sarcastic glint back in her eye. "So I won't find any practice lines written on your hands?" she says, and he grins again. Amazed that his face can actually form a smile this many times in such a short period. "No practice. It's real," he replies, and watches her face grow solemn again, weighing his words. "Well, what about starting off where you suggested?" he asks, praying he's not making a fool out of himself. Not wanting to do something, say something stupid that'll scare her away. She gives a confused movement, hand brushing the air- a gesture he's come to know well from her that plainly says 'What the hell are you talking about?'  
  
"Well, I have a lot of scars," he says. "So telling about them is going to take a while. Got a lot of coffee?" he asks, and watches the comprehension flit over her face. She smiles. "Angel, you've survived centuries, curses and countless demons. But I guarantee you, you will not survive my coffee," she deadpans, and he looks down before she can see his idiot grin again. "I thought cops were supposed to be good at making coffee. Y'know, the coffee and doughnuts thing," he shoots back, before abruptly shutting up. He could kick himself. Let's just remind her of what she had, why don't we? Sometimes he wished he'd just stick his foot in his mouth *before* he spoke. But to his relief, she only shook her head.  
  
"Angel, did you ever *taste* the coffee when you were at the station house? Why do you think cops are always shown buying the coffee, and not making it?" she snorts. He chuckles. "Got any other ideas?" he asks, and watches her bite her lip. "Give me a few minutes, and we can head over to Lou's. Great coffee, nice atmosphere, and no demons. Or at least, none that will bother us," she suggests, and he's struck by the apprehension in her eyes. He nearly shakes her. Doesn't she get it? Hell, he'll sit in an alley lined with fire with her if she wants to.  
  
But he knows this is hard for her. Trust in him and his motives will build- he'll just be happy with what he gets now. And it's not like it's easy for him, either. Trying to become friends with a former enemy was never high on his to-do list. But for her he'll make an exception. For her he'll make a lot of exceptions. "That sounds good," he agrees, then takes a look at himself. "But can we stop at the hotel first?" he begs, and sees her give him another look. "Yeah," she says, and he hears the smile in her voice. Then sees the smile slowly appear on her face. And can't help but lean in carefully- and kiss that smile gently. Nothing sexual- just a gesture of caring, of friendship, of warmth for a woman who's known too little of all three in her life. Chaste, almost, if both of them weren't too jaded to think of that term in conjunction with themselves.  
  
As she went to get her jacket, he thought over the look that had come over her eyes. It wasn't peaceful by any means- that would be a long time in coming. But they no long resembled shattered shards of glass. And if that was all he could give her, maybe that would be enough. For both of them. 


End file.
